Imprisoned
by The Hope Is Me
Summary: [Post XIII] - Hope indulges himself in research, Bartholomew wonders if it's even worth it.


Hope wasn't really sure why people looked forward to the end of the school day. To him, there was nothing to look forward to aside research. And in pure honesty, it was _because _of this research why some of his grades were slipping. He didn't particularly mind since he wasn't really the 'honors student' a year ago – what was the difference now? Sure he had a few clashes with his dad here and there, but it wasn't enough to put everything on hold. He was going to research, find a way to get Vanille, Fang, and Lightning back whether it killed sleep time or not; grades fell, they fell.

The boy sighed softly, laying back on his bed, book held open. Blue-green eyes scanned the words tiredly, the light blankets practically pulling him closer to fatigue. There _was _an important test the following day, but he didn't get the chapter, so what was the point again? Nothing. And with his dad setting up some big... corporation or organization, taking the 'lazy' way wasn't necessarily looked down upon. He was doing _something_, wasn't he? Even if the research on old Pulse culture and just Pulse in general did come off as a drag and (perhaps) a tad tedious. No, his was set on releasing his three friends; his mind was made up.

A knock sounded on his door. Once, then twice. Hope hadn't bothered answering, too tired to form any words. But he rolled his eyes at the, "Hope?" that eventually came from the other side. He turned over, gaze averting to the wooden wall separating him from the rest of the house. "Dad, you don't' have to knock. It _is _open, you know..." When Bartholomew turned the knob, walking in, Hope pulled up into a sitting position. "What's up?" he tried to keep it casual. While it had been a year since the Purge, since the changes, it was still awkward nonetheless.

Bartholomew took his seat at the edge of the bed. The hesitance told them both that common ground needed to be established. That is if they were to discuss _anything _concerning a matter. "I'd like to talk about your school," he started slowly and Hope's eyes shifted the floor, knowing what was coming. "Look Hope..." he adjusted the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. It was a nervous habit, he discovered. "I understand this research is important to you, but school comes first. You need to keep up your grades; universities look for good GPA's."

Silence answered the elder Estheim. Internally, Hope was suppressing the complaints rising in his chest. He didn't want to break out and yell; that was the last thing he needed. But his father didn't get it. The research _was _important to him. More than anything else. If he really 'understood', why couldn't he see that now?

"Dad... I'm not doing research because I don't have a hobby. I write sometimes, remember?" He chewed his lower lip. The only person truly around to read his work was his mother. His father never had the time; perhaps he didn't know about his son's hobby at all. "This research... It's important to me, you're right. But it's not something I can just put on hold." He closed the book with a dull clap before tossing it aside where it landed gingerly on the green blankets of his bed. "My friends are in there. That big pillar you see? They're there. And I can't just sit here and do _nothing _knowing that they're still alive."

"But you're rushing things," Bartholomew cut in stiffly. "Maybe reading old books might give you a clue or two. But did you think of how much time you'd have to invest? With a great project comes time."

Hope frowned. "And a 'great project' is built on how _much _time you put in. The more I wait, the longer it'll take. The longer _they _stay in there. I know it may not be a while before I can get them out of the pillar, but when I do have the materials, at least I won't be scavenging for information. I'll be prepared." Irritation slithered through his veins. He didn't want to talk about this anymore. His father's voice was becoming grating to him, like nails on a chalkboard. He didn't want to deal with the approaching headache.

His father opened his mouth to retaliate, but he was cut off by a piercing ring that reverberated throughout the house. "I'll be right back," he muttered, pushing himself off the bed and soon exiting the room.

All desires to read that book, research more, was cast away. The light disagreement left him drained. It may not have been a heated argument, but having them constantly, day after day, could prove to be rather annoying. So Hope left his room too, walking down the hallway to the front door. He could hear his father in one of the adjacent rooms, discussing a business matter of some sort. Hope didn't stop to listen; he had nothing to look for, nothing of current interest.

The small frames containing photos of his family were aligned to the left, resting on a shelf of some sort. Hope slowed, scanning over each one. There was the picture of the Estheim family – his parents and himself – and next to that one were two: One of him and his mother, and the last a solo picture of Nora. He stopped before that one, heart settling like lead and a sudden lump resting in his throat. He didn't dare remove the photo from its place, afraid he would drop it, break a tangible image of his mother.

She smiled back at him, eyes warm and soft, comforting...

He sighed, breath shaking. The earlier refusal to pick up the photo was shoved aside just slightly. He grasped the right side of the frame, kneeling down to for a better view (_or to feel closer_). Hope knew the truth; it flashed like a knife in the dark, brief silver that could also play as a warning, a foreshadow.

'_Mom's not coming back..._'

The words repeat themselves, running laps around his mind, wrapping, binding. He knows the truth, dammit. But should that limit him from the feelings? The hurt that plagued his heart since that day in Bodhum? There was no irreversible change; nothing could revive the dead. It was rubbish, bogus. Hope was unsure of how long he had remained kneeling, staring back at an unyielding face, a smile that would never falter. He clenched his eyes shut, cringing away yet his hand kept its place.

"I miss you, mom..." he whispered softly, blue-green irises hidden behind now-loosened lids. "I wish you were here... You would know what to do, wouldn't you?" Tears pricked at his eyes and they gathered like dew at the corners. He exhaled, the sound a mixture of a heavy sigh and a sob. His gaze averted back to Nora. "I love you..." his voice cracked on the last word, and the tears began their slow decent down his face. "And... I'm sorry. Had I been stronger, taken the gun when it was offered... I could've..." _I could've fought for _you_. You'd live..._

Her photo had remained statuesque, as all photos would. And that alone broke the dam he put before his tears, his sorrow. His hand slipped and he buried his face against the shelf, the other arm wrapped around his head protectively. He bit back the sobs, which still found their escape through weak whimpers. The voices in the other room had subsided long ago, and the hands draped over his shoulders belonged to none other than his father. He didn't have to turn around to know, but he ultimately reared back, burying his face into his father's chest.

Bartholomew was indeed caught off guard, but he didn't recoil. He pulled his son closer in a rather awkward hug. He was not used to physical contact – even at times with Nora. "I miss her too, Hope..." The response he was given consisted of nothing but sobs. "I miss her too..."

_Nora..._

_Can you hear me?_

**Author Note: **So I don't write a fanfic in a month. And the first thing I _do _write when I get back in gear, is angst *flails* And yes, I love making Hope suffer, sorry Hope-chan! Unfortunately, this was rather short, but I ran out of angst because of other plot bunnies prancing through my head. Yeah, great, huh?

So... Reviews would be awesome?


End file.
